


York and Sons

by medieval_scribe



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, The White Queen (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Edwardian Period, Gen, Pre-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medieval_scribe/pseuds/medieval_scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>York and Sons is a venerable family-owned financial concern in Britain. When its chairman is killed in action in the Boer War, it falls to his son, Edward, to take over the family business and also look out for his brothers, George and Richard. This is the story of their lives, political and personal, from the years before the First World War to just before the Second World War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

  
**The Times | London | 10th February 1900**

**OBITUARY  
Richard York, Earl of March**

The City has sustained a great loss in the death of Richard York, Earl of March, who fell serving King and Country in forward action at Spion Kop in South Africa. He was 49 years old. Lord March was an Eton boy and later read history at Queens College, Cambridge before joining the family firm, York and Sons. He rose to managing director and chairman of the firm.

He was from well-respected Shropshire gentry, believed to be distantly related to the royal family, but was born in Yorkshire and lived in London nearly his entire life, running the family concern with great success, and devoting his energies to many of the city's causes and charities. A man of great vigor and intellect, he will be sorely missed. 

Married in 1880 to Lady Cecily Neville, daughter of the Earl of Westmorland, Lord March is survived by his three sons Edward, George and Richard, and by his only sister, Lady Isabel Bourchier.


	2. Christmas 1904

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To welcome Edward's new wife Elizabeth to the family, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, invites his cousin and business associate to spend the holidays at his Yorkshire home with his own family.

**Chapter 1. Christmas 1904**

_Middleham Manor, Wensleydale_

Snow begins to fall when they arrive at Middleham, the motor pulling up in front of Warwick's stately country manor. It is Edward's first visit to his cousin's home since that fateful day the letter from the war office arrived, announcing his father's untimely death. Edward was eighteen then, only a boy just entering university, thrust unprepared into an earldom with all its responsibilities and burdens. He's not much older now, but he's a grown man and no longer unnerved by the idea of battle, either in the boardroom or the bedroom. 

The journey from the railway station to the house is long, winding through the barren landscape of the moors in winter. He finds it beautiful but stark, so removed from the bright lights of London, the life he knows and loves. This evening though, the darkened dales are a good companion for his mood. He gets out of the car and takes in a long breath of sharp winter air, bracing himself like a gladiator about to enter the arena. For once, he finds the analogy perfectly appropriate. 

He helps his wife out, and as Betsy curls her fingers around his, he notes how clammy her hands are, how unsure she looks. She smooths her golden hair and puts on a smile of false confidence. She is beautiful and perfect, and any family would be proud to welcome her into their homes. But this is not just any family.

"Ready to face the lion's den?" he says, with an ease he does not feel. He takes her elbow and nudges her along. "Trust me, love, it'll be no worse than going on stage, and you've done that a hundred times, for a thousand eyes."

Betsy nods, but her smile falters. Edward is still a young man. For all his supreme self-confidence, his worldliness, he's a boy eager to please his mother. That his choice of bride is more likely to disappoint is not lost on Betsy. 

At least one person at Middleham is not a stranger to her though. She's met her husband's cousin, the Earl of Warwick, once before. He'd come to one of her performances at The Palace, the night she, the long-suffering understudy, finally danced as Salome. She was almost instantly drawn to the dark and magnetic Richard Neville, but apparently immune to attraction, he'd left her alone with his young cousin instead. Edwards's charms were undeniable, whether in the theatre's receiving room, or later, in the cheaply bought privacy of her bedroom. Once she succumbed, there was no turning back. 

Still, nobody is as surprised as Betsy when Edward suggests they marry. She tells him of the child, of course, hints there are ways he should take care of her. But the best she hopes for is to be set up as his mistress, to have her child well provided for. Instead, he marries her, in a small affair at the registrar's office. It is private, seedy and perfectly legal, and in the space of a day, she goes from being Betsy Wood, an actress of middling ability and unremarkable family, to Elizabeth York, Countess of March. 

She lays a hand on her belly, the slight swell hidden by the bulk of her coat. Edward takes her and gives it a quick squeeze, and reassured, she says the only thing that comes to mind. 

"What do I call your mother?" 

She catches a brief flash of fear in her husband's eyes before he smiles at her, teeth straight and brilliant in the failing light. "You don't. You speak to her when she speaks to you, and 'my lady' will do just fine." 

\--

The Earl of Warwick is an impatient man. He drums his fingers on the wood of his desk, annoying his wife and making his aunt Cecily jump and glare at him from her corner seat in the parlor. Nobody at Middleham is happy, and for good reason. 

"Greville, is the train from London late?" 

The butler shakes his head. "No, my lord. I sent Dudley with the motor an hour ago. Perhaps the snow, sir." 

Warwick looks out the window and swears at the falling flakes. "Useful excuse. But it's just like Ned to be late, isn't it?" The words are out of his mouth before he catches the look of warning Nan shoots him, and well before the disapproving one his from his aunt. 

He bristles and tries to divert their scorn back where it belongs. "It's been nigh on six months since he married. I think courtesy required more than a telegram. Don't you agree, Auntie?" 

Cecily gives him a sidelong glance. "I think you'll find, Dick, that my son is most sensible, especially in how he breaks bad news." 

Warwick scoffs, but says no more, aware Cecily's nerves were nearly as frayed as his own. Meanwhile, Nan paced the room, looking ill at ease. "Perhaps I should let the children have dinner. They will be restless soon."

Cecily scoffs and her husband waves off her concern. "They will have to wait. And the patience will be a good lesson, I imagine."

Nan presses her lips together in concession. She'll have a private word with her husband later. She knows his criticism is directed not at the two York boys, but at her daughters and how she's brought them up. Nan is not especially worried about Isabel, who is both gentle and careful. But Anne is only eight, and it's a difficult age for a little girl who is neither fond of waiting nor used to it. She wonders what sort of trouble the four children are getting into in the library. 

She's brought out of her thoughts by Greville's low voice close to her ear. 

"The guests are here, my lady. Should I show them in to the parlor?" 

"No, we'll receive them at the door. Dick?" 

Warwick is on his feet in an instant, holding his hand out for his countess. Cecily gives him a quick glare before settling back into her chair. 

The doors to Middleham's grand entryway are thrown open as Greville ushers in the young couple and takes their flake-covered coats. Warwick smiles genially, every inch the perfect host. He waits for Greville to finish announcing the guests, amused when the usually composed butler trips over the word "countess." 

"Edward. How good to see you again." 

"Dick!" Edward thumps Warwick on the shoudler with studied good nature. "May I introduce my wife, Elizabeth?" 

The woman on Edward's arm holds her hand out politely. Her dress and manner are demure, and Warwick swallows down his disappointment. She'd been much more fiery when they'd first met. But he notes too that her clever eyes are taken in the surroundings, that she's measuring the other women in the room. We'll have to be careful with this one, he thinks, giving his wife a sidelong glance. 

Nan comes forward, less self-assured than her husband but just as composed. She gives Edward a smile and a quick kiss on the cheek, liking him. The wife she's less sure of. Nan makes quick note of the woman's obvious pregnancy, and hopes it will not lead to any awkwardness over dinner. 

"Lady Elizabeth," she says, with more warmth than she feels. "Welcome to our home." She takes Elizabeth's hands and leads her out to the parlor to meet Cecily, not pleased at the propsect of the fireworks that will ensue. 

\--

Cecily is not a hard woman, but she's had, at least by her own estimates, a less than easy life. Her husband had been a good man, but his ambition and his boundless energy had taken him away from home too often, and finally to a far-away war that didn't need him and had ultimately cost him his life. Left alone with her sons, she'd done her best to make them understand their enormous privilege, but equally, their immense responsibility. 

Of the three, Edward had taken his father's loss hardest, becoming a man long before he was done being a boy. But the impetuousness of youth is slow to fade, and she suspects her son's sudden marriage is the last hurrah of rebellion. 

She's not troubled that Edward is married at so young an age. If he can manage the company and his own estates, he can certainly manage a wife, however unsuitable. Unlike the rest of London society, she's not scandalized by Edward's choice of bride. She knows how his tastes run. The retiring daughter of some country baron, bred to enjoy horses and shy laughter? That would never have been enough for a young man as full of life and spirit as her oldest son. 

If she's offended at all, it's only because Edward never shared the news with her. She's the woman who has held his hand through illness, disappointment and loss. She's the one who has taught him determination and resolve. Yet all she receives is a telegram after the fact, an impersonal and distant message. Her other sons shrug off their brother's marriage with only a little unease, still not old enough to understand the wound to their mother's pride. 

Cecily had reacted to the news with uncharacteristic pettiness, sending Edward only a terse note of acknowledgment. She'd been careful not to say more, no questions, no congratulations, and he'd made no overtures to her either, bringing them to their current state. They are, for all practical purposes, at war, and this Christmas meeting at Middleham is neither a thaw nor a reconciliation. It is an exploration. 

Edward walks into the parlor, bracing himself against his mother's anger. He knows she will not raise her voice or rail against him. But her icy calm is reproach enough. 

"Mother," he says, hoping he can keep his control. 

"Edward." He flinches a little. As far back as he can remember, she's always called him Ned. It is familiar, a mark of closeness and affection. That he's never to be just Ned again in his mother's eyes is a shock he is not prepared for. 

She leans up for his kiss, and he presses his lips obediently against her cheek. 

"Don't look at me like that, Mother. I know you're angry--"

"I'm not angry. Don't put words in my mouth." She gets up with her usual grace, her calm intact. She nods in the direction of the doorway, where a demure Betsy is waiting to be invited into the family's inner circle. 

"In fact, Edward, I think you should introduce us and we should sit for dinner." She pats his arm in a gesture of dismissal he recognizes well. 

"Mother, this is Elizabeth. Betsy."

"Countess," Betsy says, her voice shaking with nervousness. It's a pleasure to meet you." 

His mother hesitates and then holds out her hand in greeting. "Elizabeth. Call me Cecily." 

Edward watches with interest as the two women size each other up. Despite the difference in their age and relative station, they are remarkably alike, and he wonders with some alarm whether this was the reason he was so drawn to Elizabeth in the first place. He has no desire to follow the train of thought to its conclusion, so it's a relief when Warwick ducks his head into the room. 

"We should really sit for dinner now. The children are restless, you understand."

\--

Dinner is a distinctly uncomfortable affair. Warwick lays a sumptuous table and his wine cellar is easily the best in the country, but conversation is stilted and awkward. 

Betsy squares her shoulders and decides to tackle dinner as well as she can. She's an actress and prides herself on being able to play any role. She suspects this might be a bit more challenging than Oscar Wilde, however. For one, she's seated where Ned can barely see her, so she can't even take reassurance from him. For another, Warwick's countess has deliberately put her next to the least interesting guests, Warwick's older daughter Isabel, and Ned's younger brother Richard. She suspects she's being punished. Both Isabel and Richard are painfully polite, but if sparkling wit or ready charm is their strength, both are doing an exemplary job of hiding it. After the usual exchange of pleasantries, their chatter dies down naturally. 

Betsy doesn't mind the silence. It gives her a chance to observe the others at dinner. Her mother-in-law is the most surprising. She has no idea just how old Cecily is, but her hair is still mostly without grey and she carries herself with a poise and elegance that even Betsy envies. She's also impressed that Cecily has not let her guard down over the course of dinner. She's no closer to knowing Cecily's real feelings, and Betsy considers this her great failure. 

Warwick's wife, called Nan by nearly everyone, is deftly steering the little conversation around the table and managing the flow of food and wine. She's a tall woman with a stately and remote sort of beauty, an agelessness that Betsy hopes she can duplicate one day. But she looks tired. There are dark circles of worry visible under her otherwise perfect makeup and her entire appearance is that of exhaustion, of a person stretched too taut, like a small canvas over a much larger frame. Every now and then, she catches Nan and Warwick exchange glances over the table, a silent conversation that the others are not privy to. But Betsy can sense discord as well, cracks in the armor of their marriage. That information she files away for later, turning her attention instead to Ned's impressive cousin 

He seems less majestic and powerful than at their first meeting, but she suspects that is partly because Ned, her laughing, golden prize, has displaced that memory. Warwick is deep in conversation with Ned's brother, George. Like Ned, George is good-looking and easy with himself, but Ned's vast confidence is missing, and George seems incomplete somehow, as if the sculptor responsible for the man's chiseled features grew tired and abandoned the work before it was done. She's out of earshot and can't hear their conversation, but she sees George hanging on his cousin's every word with rapt attention, and Betsy is keenly reminded that George is still only a boy, a 15-year old boy with no father. 

The thought is sobering and brings her gaze back to Ned, who winks at her across the table. She's too charmed to be appalled, smiling instead as Ned returns to his conversation wth Warwick's younger daughter Anne. He's clearly charming the little girl with a story he probably made up on the spot. Betsy knows from personal experience how easy it is to fall under Ned's spell. Anne, however, seems less impressed. The girl is mousy and untidy in the way that little girls often are. She's nothing like her parents, having neither Warwick's impressive personality nor her mother's beauty, apparently all inherited by the older daughter. Anne does have a rather startling pair of blue eyes, however, wide and far too knowing for someone her age. Betsy catches the her eye from across the table, and on impulse, aping Ned from before, she winks. Anne startles and then breaks into giggles. The laughter passes around the table in a chain of awkward chuckles before Nan gives the signal to clear the table. 

"We'll have the pudding in the library, Greville."

\--

Richard examines the board before him. He's playing chess with Anne, who informs him the set they're using has been in the Neville family for generations. The pieces are carved from some ancient type of stone and are now so worn that it's hard to tell one apart from the other. She's so proud of the set and her story that he lets her prattle on while his thoughts wander. He's been told that Anne can be moody, even a little frightening. But the little girl sitting across the board from his is sweet and eager, and as the warning comes from Isabel, Richard feels safe ignoring it. It's no worse than anything he's said about George, he reckons. 

It's his first time at Middleham, at least that he can remember. The house is magnificent, even more so than the York home in London, where he's spent Christmas holidays every year until now. The holidays are time well spent with his mother and brothers, and at one time, with his father. Richard does not remember the man with any specificity. He's a shadow, a distant memory, and he feels none of Ned's sharp bitterness or their mother's enduring sorrow over the loss. Richard's world is small and entirely populated with the familiar: their house, his school, his mother, and when they are in London, his brothers. He prefers the intimacy of the tight circle they form around him. They never ask more of him than he can give, and they don't mind that he is quiet, that he prefers to keep his emotions coiled away. 

Still, he appreciates the benefit of branching out a little meeting new people. He's always been fond of his cousin Dick, and this is the first time he's met the two daughters. In years past, they'd all been too young to spend time in adult company over the holidays. But this is clearly a special occassion. Dick has gone to great lengths to promise them a spectacular Christmas, and Richard is still young enough to be impressed. 

But he's also old enough to realize that Christmas is only an excuse to bring Ned's new wife into the fold. Like his mother, at first, he'd been shocked to hear the news of Ned marrying, if only because nobody did anything without their mother's express permission. But the initial shock fades quickly, and to Richard's 12-year old mind, the news becomes stale and uninteresting in a hurry. 

Now that he has seen Elizabeth--Betsy, he corrects--he can understand why Ned married her. She's the most beautiful woman Richard has ever seen. She's also different. There's an edge to her voice, a chill in her green eyes that Richard has never encountered before, at least within his own family. But he concedes his experience is limited and he wonders if the others see it too. 

"She's very beautiful, isn't she?" he says to nobody in particular. This wins him a shrug of spectacular indifference from Anne, a knowing smile from George, and an indignant hiss from Isabel. 

"I suppose she is, if you like a woman who looks like that." Isabel squares her shoulders and pouts in that way that Richard thinks girls must practice a lot. 

George laughs. "Everyone likes a woman who looks like that." This produces a scoff from Isabel, and soon they're arguing as they've been doing all day, and Richard tires of it and stops paying attention. 

Meanwhile, his opponent at the chess board is obviously annoyed. 

"It's your move. I've been waiting forever."

"Sorry. You're right." He forces his attention back to the board and they play on. Anne is surprisingly good for her age, and a few moves later, Richard is at a distinct disadvantage. He catches the beginning of a smile on her face, a tiny signal of triumph. Amused, he launches a tricky ploy George once used on him. In just six moves, he has her cornered. 

"Checkmate," he says, and regrets it instantly. Anne's eyes are blazing. She's livid and just on the verge of some sort of tantrum. Richard backtracks. "Look, Anne. It's only a game."

"You tricked me, Dickon. You cheated." 

"No, Anne. I can show you what I--" But it's too late. She flings herself across the table and at him. He has no time to react and falls off the chair and onto the floor, caught in a wrestling hold by a tiny girl with impressive strength. When he tries to free himself, she claws at his face and draws blood. The site of an actual injury shocks Anne though, and gives Richard a chance to push her off and glare at her. 

The tussle has not gone unnoticed. George is at his side in an instant. "What happened? Are you hurt?" He moves Richard's hands off his face. "Oh God, Dickon. You're all scratched up." 

"Anne, you wicked little..." Isabel draws her sister away, berating her until they're out of earshot. Cecily is immediately on her feet, and Nan signals the footman to bring ointment and bandages. Warwick, Edward and Elizabeth watch with a sort of detached fascination as Richard suffers through all the fussing. 

He's the only one who sees a sobbing Anne run out of the library. 

\--

"So. Did I pass the test?" 

Edward laughs in answer, as Betsy shrugs out of her dressing gown and slides into bed next to him. "I think it depends on who you ask. My brothers liked you, I think."

She scoffs. "What in the world happened with your brother there?" 

Edward shrugs. Dinner had been a carefully controlled disaster. Things went well enough after, until Richard's quarrel with Warwick's little daughter pushed the evening into utter chaos. He chuckles now, wondering at the fuss everyone made over a tiny scratch. Richard and George have been hurt far worse just wrestling with each other, and a bit of blood should not have been enough to frighten anyone. Richard certainly seemed none the worse for the wear. But it is a predictable cap to the evening, and when they retire for the night, nobody is more relieved than Edward himself. 

He's still unhappy that he is not reconciled with his mother. They will have to talk to each other, instead of just circling around all their troubles. The idea brings no comfort. The Yorks are good at a great many things, but confrontation, especially the sort that involves familiar feeling, is not one of them. 

He sighs and in response, Betsy wraps her slender arms around his waist, her lips pressed to the shell of his ear. She is soft, alluring, demanding, and she drives all thought from his mind, until he is only a mass of heat and desire and can do no more than answer her every command.

Later, they lie in a sated tangle of limbs, half-asleep. She mumbles something he can't quite make out, but which sounds suspiciously like you-need-to-talk-to-your-mother.

\--

"Mother." 

"Edward."

He smiles, acknowledging her greeting with grace and biting down his bitterness at not being Ned. "Did you sleep well?" 

"Yes. All things considered."

"Dickon?" 

"Oh, he's alright. It's just a scratch. He's had much worse from you and George." 

He smiles at that, and settles down on the armchair across from her. She's fallen silent, but there's no sign of obvious anger. He's content to just watch her a few minutes, taking in the grey that is just barely creeping into her hair, the new tracery of lines around her eyes and mouth he's never seen before. 

"Is there anything you want to talk about?" Left to his own devices, Edward would broach this topic with more care, certainly more charm. But his mother values honesty over strategy, and he loves her well enough to respect that sentiment. 

"When does the baby come?" 

Edward chuckled. "I wondered when you would ask. In the spring, or so Betsy says."

She nods in response, her mouth set in a thin, hard line. "Is that why?" 

"No, mother." He hesitates a moment, wondering whether it's prudent to speak his mind, to reveal himself as he almost never does. "Or at least not just that. I do love her." He smiles. "In my own way."

"In the same way you loved that Talbot girl in the village?" There is scorn in her voice, but it does not reach her eyes, and Edward is relieved. 

"The vicar's daughter? I was sixteen. I'm not sure you can hold that against me."

She laughs, a gentle sound, all the more pleasant for being so rare. "I suppose I can't. Though if you were going to marry for love, it might as well have been her." 

"Well, mother. There are things Betsy can do that you don't learn at a vicarage."

Cecily arches an eyebrow, both amused and slightly appalled. 

Edward drags the chair closer to his mother, looks her frankly in the eyes. "But it's not just about Betsy. It's really not about any girl at all."

She nods. As always, they understand each other. "Dick?" 

"Yes, in part." He sighs. "I can't always be Warwick's man forever. I need to...strike out on my own, put my stamp on things." 

"Things? A woman?" Cecily raises an eyebrow. "Did he...want her?" 

"No!" Edward pauses, a frisson of doubt creeping into his mind. "Actually, I don't know. But he wanted something else. For me.

"There's a French concern that he's been...courting, for lack of a better word. He wanted me to marry the owner's daughter, said it made good common sense.

"Turns out he had a deal. I marry the girl, he gets their interest in York & Sons." Edward bangs a fist against the arm of his chair, making Cecily flinch. 

"Sorry." He flexes the hand, stares at it as his anger recedes. "Just think, mother. If I'd married Bona Savoie, Warwick would have bought me out, owned the firm. He would have owned us.

"I had to do it. Betsy, it wasn't her doing, no matter what you or anyone else thinks. But she was...convenient. Do you see?" 

He pleads for her understanding, thinks he has it. But Cecily's expression is blank, her mouth still set in a thin inscrutable line. 

Edward lets out an exasperated breath, exhausted with her, with his family. "It doesn't matter if you see or don't, mother. But I did what I had to do."

"You couldn't have said all this months ago? Asked me?" 

"I didn't need your permission, did I?" 

She smiles slowly, sardonic, almost malevolent. "And my blessing?" 

"I don't need that either," he says evenly. "It changes nothing."

"I see." There is ice in her voice now, and Edward feels it crossing the distance between them, sinking like a chill into his heart. He doesn't like it. But he can't be a slave to his mother's emotions, not anymore. Her happiness is a small enough price to pay. 

"I want to like her, you know." 

"I know. Maybe with time?" 

She nods, and out of habit, he pats her hand, but without any particular sentiment. They can never go back to how things were. Still, his mother is even more practiced at charm and flattery than he is. Cecily gives him her most insincere smile and squeezes his hand. 

"When I'm back in London, I'll invite Betsy to luncheon at Baynard," she says, full of false cheer. He grins in the same vein and thanks her. 

They have nothing left to say to each other, but as she starts to walk away, he throws out a last salvo. 

"I think this is what the French call detente, mother."

Cecily laughs. "No, Ned. This is what the Americans call a Mexican standoff." 

\-- 

Anne kicks her legs against the chair, annoyed that her feet don't quite reach the ground. 

"Stop it, Anne. Really," Isabel huffs with impatience. 

"You're supposed to be keeping me company. But you're just sitting there."

"I'm not keeping you company, Anne. I'm keeping watch over you."

Anne pouts, not caring that's it's unbecoming of her. "I'm not a baby. I don't need you to be my nurse."

"Not nurse then. Watchdog. I'm here to make sure you don't get into any more trouble, you wicked thing."

Isabel glares at her, and when Anne turns away, she returns to her book, pleased with how easily she's enforcing discipline. Anne has always been an exasperating child, and nobody has suffered through this as much as Isabel. Forced to share a nursery with her wailing baby of a sister, she was amused at first. But Anne had done nothing interesting for nearly a year, and by then, Isabel had been old enough for her own rooms and never happier to be leaving the baby behind. 

The novelty of being by herself had worn off quickly, and instead, Isabel began sneaking out of bed and into the nursery, spreading a blanket on the floor besides Anne's crib. During the day, she'd entertain herself by making Anne more interesting. Determined that Anne should walk, Isabel had raised her sister to her feet, and forcibly moved her fat baby legs one after the other. It had taken weeks, but Anne had finally toddled across the floor on her own. 

Isabel's name had been Anne's first word, though she'd got it wrong, calling her Igabeth instead. The name had stuck and to this day, Anne still called her Iggy. She was forbidden to say the name in public, on pain of possible death at her sister's hands, but in private, Isabel remained Iggy and found she didn't mind it at all. 

"You really think I'm wicked?"

Isabel shuts her book and casts a cautious eye over her sister. Anne's blue eyes are so wide they've nearly taken over her face, and there is no mistaking the well of tears pooling in them. With a sigh, she relents. 

"Not wicked, not truly. But the Yorks are our guests, and what you did to Dickon was rude. Very rude."

"Is he very angry?" 

Isabel frowns. "You know, I don't think so. George says Dickon is never angry, at least not for too long. But it would be kind of you to apologize to him."

"Will Mama let me into Christmas luncheon if I apologize?"

"Oh, I don't know. I don't think so, Anne. There has to be a lesson, don't you think?" 

"I know not to attack people, Iggy. I always have." 

Isabel shakes her head, sighing in frustration. "No, you silly goose. That's not the lesson. It's that you must learn to keep things to yourself. Your anger, your sadness, even your happiness."

"Why?" 

"I don't know. It's what mother says. It must..." Isabel's voice trails off. There is no sense in sugar-coating things, not for Anne. "It must help her. She's not always happy, but she's always perfect." 

"So the lesson is to be perfect?" 

"Right."

Anne smiles. "So if I'm perfect, why do I need to apologize?" 

Isabel laughs and then raps her sister on the head with her knuckles. "Oh, I think you must be wicked after all, Anne!"


	3. Summer 1905

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shortly before Richard leaves for school, he gets disconcerting news, and Anne has to learn to behave herself in public the hard way.

**Chapter 2. Summer 1905**

_London, early June_ _  
_

William Hatcliffe scribbles on the paper in front of him, stalling for time. Every now and then, his eyes twitch up to the mother of his young patient, drumming her fingers on the table in a sign of clear impatience.

She clears her throat, and Hatcliffe relents, not able to put off the conversation any longer.

"I'm sorry, my lady. Just some last minute things I needed to take care of." He pushes away the papers in front of him and turns his attention to Richard York's file. He's known the lad forever, since he was born. The entire family is nearly as close to him as his own, which is no consolation at times like these.

"Everything looks fine..." His voice trails off as he flips the page. "But..."

"But?" Cecily's voice is so sharp, it could slice through wood.

"There's a small issue. Nothing important, I'm sure. But I think I should bring it to your attention."

"Small issue?" He wonders if she already suspects, as patients--and their mothers--often do.

"It's probably nothing," Hatcliffe begins. "We noticed a bit of...er...let me start over." The doctor makes an elaborate show of taking off his glasses and wiping them. He pushes them back up the bridge of his nose and fixes his gaze firmly on his patient. "Has Richard complained of any back trouble?"

"No, I don't think so. What are you getting at, doctor?"

"I noticed a bit of a problem with the spine. A misalignment of sorts."

Cecily's eyebrows rose into her hairline, a combination of surprise and disbelief. "A misalignment? The bones are out of order?"

"No. It's more as if they've deviated a bit." He picks up a ruler and holds it up for her. "Normally, a spine runs approximately straight up and down, if you look at it straight on." He tilts the ruler a little, and adds, "but if a few of the bones are misaligned, the spine curves away from the center of the back."

She frowns. "Is it...dangerous?"

"No, or at least there's no immediate risk to Richard's life or anything. But it will become more pronounced over time, if it's not taken care of. It could be quite debilitating."

Cecily nods. She does her best to maintain a calm, even detached demeanor. But inside her mind, she is in turmoil. Richard was frail as a child, and she'd always feared losing him, and more than once. But he was thriving now, her dark-but-spirited child, at once both serious and charming. How was she going to break the news to him, that it was not only his coloring and demenor that were unlike his brothers?

"Why does he have this? Is it a disorder? Is there medicine?" She has a thousand question, and in her mind, they run together in cacophony of worry.

Hatcliffe gives her a wan smile. If it's meant to reassure, it does not have the desired effect. "Nobody knows why this happens. It might run in your family--"

"I assure you this does not run in my family."

"No, of course not," he backtracks, remembering that bad news goes down much like bad medicine. "But sometimes it just happens. It's not a disease in the strictest sense, and I'm not sure there's a cure."

"So there's nothing you can do for Richard?"

"No, there are certainly things we can do to keep the scoliosis from progressing further." He drags his chair away from the desk, and Cecily flinches at the sound of wood scraping across the tile floor. She watches through worried eyes as he retrieves a thin tome from a shelf behind him. He flips to a particular page and holds the book out to her.

Cecily sees a grainy photograph of a man with a twist in his back, one shoulder higher than the other, a hip slightly off-kilter. She shivers. _Poor Richard, my poor boy._ Next to this is another picture, presumably of the same man, but with the curve much less pronounced.

"The treatment in that case was new, an experiment. But as you can see it was quite effective. The patient needed a brace for a significant period of time, and that helped straighten the misalignment almost completely."

"A brace?"

"It's a contraption intended to support the spine while realigning the bones. It's the most recommended treatment for this sort of situation, my lady."

Cecily fingers the repaired back in the photograph. "It will be painful, I gather."

The doctor sighs. "Yes, it will be, especially at the beginning. But over time, he'll get used to it. It will help him, limit the damage to his back."

_And what will limit the damage to his mind?_ Cecily shuts the book suddenly, startling the doctor. There is nothing for it. She'll explain to Richard, and they'll get him whatever treatment he needs. She's determined that this youngest child will not go through life a cripple.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Have Richard come back to my surgery. I'll go through the procedure with him, and he'll need to be fitted for the brace, of course."

Cecily nodded. "Very well." She rises out of her seat slowly, with as much dignity as her roiled mind will allow. "When you speak to Richard, be honest, doctor. He's young, but he's old enough to hear the truth, however dark."

_And if he is not now, he will be soon enough_.

\--

Edward lets out a low whistle, while George gapes, both awed and confused. "Well, what is it?"

Richard stares malevolently at the object resting on the floor in his room. The brace for his back had been delivered an hour ago, and now his brothers, their curiosity warring with their concern, are trying to figure the device out. As far as Richard is concerned, it's some sort of medieval torture device, and he wants no part of it.

"Dr. Hatcliffe says I have to wear it. To straighten out my back."

Edward nods absently. Richard is not surprised that his brothers already know, but he wonders that George has not taken the opportunity to tease him. He suspects his mother's hand in this, and although he wishes they hadn't be told at all, he can see the sense in it. His mother was probably trying to spare his feelings, and he cannot fault her for it.

"How long do you have to wear it?" George seems genuinely curious, his fingers splayed against the side of the brace. "Will it hurt?"

"All the time. The doctor says if I wear it properly, my...condition...will get better quicker. And I don't know if it will hurt. Probably. Look at it!"

This makes his brothers laugh, although they sense his seriousness and quickly compose themselves. "I suppose you wear it under your clothes."

"Right. Dr. Hatcliffe thinks it won't even be seen. Not sure I believe him."

"Well, he has no reason to lie to you, Dickon. Mother says he showed her results from a similar study. If it worked for others, I'm sure it will do for you as well."

Richard frowns. Edward's logic is unassailable as always, but he's not the one who has to spend the next five years in a brace, and cold reason is no comfort to him.

George is surprisingly silent, but Richard can tell by the way his eyes shift that he's thinking hard about something. No doubt it will be some elaborate prank involving the brace. Unwittingly, Richard shivers and decides he'd rather throw himself into the icy Thames than deal with one of George's clever tricks.

"There's something else," Richard says, idly fiddling with the straps on the brace. "I don't think I'm going off to school."

His brothers stare at him as if he's just professed belief in satanic ritual sacrifice.

Ned scoffs. "Nonsense. Of course you'll go to school."

Richard opens his mouth to counter, but after a moment's reflection, he swallows down the argument bubbling up in his throat. Edward would never understand his terror of school. He is smaller than other boys his age, and now he's burdened with an impediment that's likely to make him even smaller, mark him out. He likes to be sure of himself, but the uncertainty of his life looms large, even more than for other boys about to become boarders. Why should he go? Why can't they spare him this humiliation?

He feels his hands tremble with anger, and wary of doing something stupid, he stuffs them into his pockets and gives Ned a baleful look.

His brother laughs. "Listen, Dickon. Don't worry too much about school. Those things they say, about moulding boys into men? It's all nonsense.

"You come out just as you went in." He gives Richard an enthusiastic clap on the shoulder and then flicks a finger at the brace. "This is just a _thing_. Like a new waistcoat. It makes no difference to who you really are, or how you turn out."

The blue-eyed gaze Edward turns him on is piercing and frank. "You're Richard York. Some stupid contraption is not going to change that."

Richard is unconvinced. The words are like the stones he skips off the pond in his mother's garden. They sit on the surface for a second before sinking into depths from which they cannot be retrieved. Deaf ears.

Edward is not a fool. He recognizes that retreating to give battle later is good strategy. He concedes the round, patting his brother cheerfully on the shoulder. "I should go before Betsy sends someone looking for me. I'll see you in the chapel?"

George nods absently, his attention trained on Richard even as Edward sidles out the door. He's not like either of his brothers. He does not have Edward's supreme confidence that the world will bend to his every will, but he doesn't have Dickon's ability to bury his troubles deep within either. He wants to help, knows Richard needs to be reassured, not dismissed. But he doesn't have the first idea what to say.

He stumbles on his tongue. "Dickon--"

Richard turns hurt eyes on him. "Don't. Just don't even say anything."

George huffs in exasperation. "No. Just listen will you? I know Ned doesn't understand. He's forgotten what it was like to be a new boy at school. But he's right.

"Everyone at Eton is an idiot. Every one of them has a problem. You'll be no different than any of them, and--"

"I'm not different." There is ice in Richard's voice and George shivers.

"No, that's not what I meant. I just mean..." He runs a hand through his mop of hair. "Dickon, you're making this so hard."

"Yes, you would make this all my fault."

George groans and grabs Richard tightly by the shoulders. "Listen. Just listen for a goddamn minute. I'll be at school with you. I know how it is, and I promise no matter what, I'll take care of you."

Richard shrugs out of his brother's grasp. "I can take care of myself. I don't need you."

George looks him straight in the eye for a moment before dropping his gaze. "No, I don't suppose you do. But I'll be there, just the same."

Richard frowns at this unexpected show of understanding from George of all people. An old memory comes to him suddenly, sharp and sad. He remembers George in a chair by his bed for nearly the entire night, not sleeping or talking, just sitting. He'd sat there for so long, waiting for Richard to cry over the death of their father, waiting to pick his brother up if he should need it, waiting to take Edward's place if he had to. Richard's never thanked him for that, and now it's probably too late.

He nods at George, as much acknowledgment as he can manage. George lets out a sigh of relief. "Grab your hat, Dickon. We're going to be late for the christening. Mother will be angry!"

\--

Anne sits quietly in the back of the crowded chapel, sandwiched between two of her most fidgety cousins. The three of them are together the youngest--and therefore least important--guests at the christening ceremony for Edward's new daughter, Elizabeth. The baby is as dull and boring as most babies, but she is apparently the most beautiful thing to ever happen to the York family, and they cannot help but coo and simper over her.

Anne is old enough to realize that the sharp pain in her chest is jealousy. She's used to being the baby at a family gathering, fussed over by elderly aunts and young cousins alike. But she's nine now, and nobody pays any attention to her. Baby Lizzie, on the other hand, commands the entire chapel. She's drawn the attention of Anne's parents, her aunts and uncles, and even her own sister, leaving Anne to fend for herself. She's been looking forward to this adventure in London, and instead, she's had to spend most of her time by herself, brooding that she's at once too old and too young for attention.

The boys sitting with her are both named Harry, and for convenience, she's given them nicknames. The older one is Loud Harry, the son of her Stafford cousin Sir Humphrey. She's known him since childhood, related as he is to both her parents. The younger is Quiet Harry, and Anne isn't sure they're actually related. She only knows he's the stepson of her other Stafford cousin Sir Henry. He lives with his father's kin on a sprawling estate in Wales and is almost never in London. This is the first time she's seen him, and she finds him sullen and dull.

Still, his company is preferable to Loud Harry's, who talks Anne's ear off, and always about things she has no interest in. Luckily, Loud Harry tires quickly of them and runs off to chatter at some other unfortunate, but Quiet Harry isn't really the best company. He says very little and answer her questions with single words and grunts. 

She sighs, remembering these aren't even the cousins she really likes. The York boys have had no time for her in the middle of being so important at their niece's christening. George is far too busy making small talk with all the guests, and though Richard sees her and greets her politely with a doff of his hat, she realizes he's too old to spare time for her. He's far more interested in his brothers and Anne is now beneath his notice. _And I never even had a chance to apologize for hurting him at Christmas!_

Anne feels tears in the back of her eyes, and with effort, she blinks them back and turns her attention to the boy next to her.

"So, are you really my cousin?"

Harry frowns and puts a finger to his chin, thinking. "I think so, though I'm not perfectly sure how. I think we might have had the same great-grandfather? Something like that."

Anne throws up her hands in mock-exasperation. "I have too many cousins!"

This draws a loud sigh from Harry. "It's better than being all alone though." When she turns to look at him, there's no humor in it. His eyes are sad and his turned-down mouth is so mournful that Anne is instantly moved. She puts her hand over his, hoping to reassure. "That's not true. You're not alone. I'll share all my cousins with you."

She can see now how watery his blue eyes are, how his lips quiver as he tries to smile at her, and Anne regrets her words. The last thing she needs if for a little boy to cry and cause a scene.

She scans the room in panic, looking for any distraction at all. In front of her, guests throng, milling around the York family. Behind her, the doors to the chapel's courtyard beckon, but there's nothing there but rocks and grass, unlikely to interest the wibbling boy next to her. Leaning against the far wall though, she finally spots it. A camera with its usual drape covering, and a flash stick leaning drunkenly against the wall.

"Harry, look! Let's see if we can take a picture." She takes his hand, pulling him along. He's a confused mix of reluctance and adventure, and after a bit of hesitation, he follows her down to the back of the chapel.

She winks at him. "C'mon," she says, pulling him under the drape with her. She sets her chin on the edge of the wooden box and nudges Harry. "Go up front, and take off the cap. On the count of three." He seems doubtful but does as he's told. It's all dark at first when she looks out, but when the lens cover comes off, her eye is flooded with light. Everything is a blur, but then her eyes adjust, the shapes resolve into things, lights, people. It's an entirely new way of seeing the world. 

Anne gasps, and in that one breath, she feels her life change, tilt away from all the familiar axes. In shock, she stumbles and tries to right herself. Instead, she knocks the camera off the stand, and though Harry tries to catch it, it's much too big for him and lands on the stone floor with a loud clatter.

All eyes in the chapel turn to Anne and she stares back without any real comprehension. "Anne," Quiet Harry says quietly, "run."

\-- 

He finds Anne in the garden, sitting on the ground with her head on her knees, miserable and exhausted.

"There you are," he says, his voice gentle and without reproach. She lifts her head up and gives him her usual lopsided smile. Then she breaks down and begins to cry, and it's all he can do to crouch down and wrap his arms around her.

"There, there, little moth," he says, trying to soothe her, but seriously out of his element in the face of her tears.

"Oh, Papa. Are you very angry?"

Warwick chuckles. "Of course not. These things happen." He gives her his handkerchief to wipe her face with, and then adds wryly, "although they seem to happen to you with some frequency, Anne."

"I don't know why I'm always getting into trouble. I don't mean to." She scrubs at her face with a determination that makes Warwick adore her more than he already does. He feels a tiny stab of guilt that he might love Anne better than Isabel. But his older child is her mother's daughter, soft and perfect. Anne is the son he's never had, all spirit and determination.

Anne hands him back the kerchief. "I always think it won't turn out badly, not this time. And I'm always wrong."

"Oh, not always, I'm sure." He hesitates, trying to remember his own childhood. He's struck by how long ago it all was, and how young Anne is. "The waters are rough now, but soon, they'll be calm and your ship will come safely into harbor."

When Anne giggles, he suspects it's the awkward metaphor and settles instead for ruffling her hair.

"Is Mama angry with me?"

He opens his mouth to deny it, but the look in her eyes gives him pause. Nan is not an easy woman to please, and for some reason, Anne is frequently on the receiving end of her criticism, sometimes veiled, often far too open.

"I don't think she's angry, Anne. But perhaps she's a little vexed."

Anne nods. "I think sometimes she doesn't like me very much."

"Nonsense!" He balks at the idea, although he cannot deny the thought has crossed his own mind a few times. Sometimes he wonders if it's his own fault. He has not always been the most attentive, or even the most faithful of husbands, and perhaps Nan takes out her disappointment, however subtly, on the girls. He sighs and tries to cut off the speculation. "She likes you very much."

She shrugs. "Sometimes I'm not sure I like her either."

"Anne! That is...uncharitable. I don't ever want you to say it again."

She seems ready to protest, but at length, she drops his gaze and nods. "Sorry. It just sort of came out."

"I know. I think you are a bit too impulsive sometimes. If maybe you can control yourself a little, there will be fewer scrapes, and you and your mother will get along better."

"I do try, Papa." She sighs heavily. "But it's very boring."

"Ah, you're bored, are you? We'll have to remedy that somehow." He gives her his most charming smile and is rewarded with a toothy grin. "I'll tell you what. If you're very good for the rest of the day, I'll take you to Foyle's tomorrow. Just the two of us."

"Not even Iggy?"

"Not even her."

Anne beams at him, all signs of her earlier distress gone. He thinks it will be no great chore to spend a few hours in a bookshop with her, even if there are a thousand other things that need his attention.

He stands and holds up his hand. "Come. We should go to this luncheon before everyone complains that we're missing."

She takes his hand and stands. He's surprised at how much taller she is than she used to be. _Have I not been paying attention?_

They walk back into the chapel in silence. They're nearly inside the door when she tugs at his sleeve. "Is Quiet Harry in trouble too?"

"Who?"

"The Tudor boy."

"Oh, him. Well, yes, I imagine he is. After all, his mother's even more of a dragon than yours."

\--

_September 1905_   
_Eton College_

Richard swears at the log in the fireplace, hoping his anger will do what his taper cannot. But the wood is damp and will not catch, and his rage is impotent. His fag-master, John Conyers, will be back to Chambers soon, expecting tea and toast, and as much as Richard hates the indignity of his situation, he hates being called out even more.

He sighs and leans over, trying to press closer to the fireplace. The brace is stiff against his back, making it hard to bend over. He recalls grimly how it took him nearly a week to be able to tie his own shoes. But he'd refused help and biting down his pride and his pain, he'd learned to adjust. Even after months, however, the brace is still an impediment, more burden than cure.

So far, it is still his secret, but he senses this is a temporary reprieve, that the other boys will soon learn that he is not like them, that he's a charlatan in a school boy's stiff collar.

He frets as he walks through the streets of Windsor with the other boys, worried they'll notice his gait or see the outline of the brace under his coat. If he's found out, will the fag-masters make fun of him? Will the beaks have him thrown out of their classes? Questions chase each other in his brain, and doubt makes a gaping hole in his heart. He thinks he could bear almost anything, even the pain and discomfort of the brace, if he could escape the shame of it.

He hears footsteps on the stone floor, and as they get closer, he straightens up and gets the tray of tea and toast ready. Conyers likes everything just so, and Richard is not fond of the upbraiding he gets when he doesn't get it right. He wonders idly how Edward, always so sure of his place in the world, ever tolerated it.

Conyers is tall and well-built, the sort of boy who looks perfectly at ease on a rugby field or in a banquet hall. He's clearly unimpressed with Richard, but that's irrelevant. Conyers is an older boy, and he has a small army of fags, with Richard being just another cog in the machine.

He sits down in a chair by the still unlit fire, and stretches out his legs, fixing Richard with an icy stare. Casually, he picks up his tea and sips, his eyes never wavering. "I might be able to look past the fire being out, York. But the tea is tepid and I'm sure the toast is soggy."

"Yes, Conyers." There's little point in making excuses, so Richard braces himself for a scolding, or worse, a switching. But none comes. Instead, he finds his fag-master pressing the bridge of his nose, an obvious sign of exhaustion.

"Is something wrong?"

Conyers looks surprised. "No, and I'll thank you to remember who asks the questions here, York." He sighs. "The state of fagging these days is absolutely deplorable."

"Yes, sir."

He regards Richard with narrowed eyes, more curious than dangerous. "Your brother is here, isn't he?"

Richard nods, not sure if Conyers is the sort George would be friends with. He seems too sure of himself for such a thing.

"I think I may have seen him in a match. He's quite good. You play, York?"

"Rugger? No, sir."

"Well, why not?"

Richard shrugs. He doubts he'll ever be big enough to play rugby union, and a sport where he'll be in contact with a scrum of other boys who might discover his secret does not appeal to him.

"What about cricket?"

"I can knock it about a bit."

Conyers laughs. "Modesty is useless, York. If you can do something, own up to it." He gives Richard a pointed look. "And if you can't do it, then for Christ's sake, learn to pretend you can!"

Richard laughs, forgetting himself. _Maybe all this fagging isn't all so bad_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the extent possible, I've tried to mirror dates and events as they happened in the 15th century, but sometimes that isn't possible. 
> 
> The names of all characters are extracted from historical persons and events. William Hatcliffe was court physician to Henry VI and Edward IV. Sir John Conyers was a Neville cousin of both Warwick and Edward IV and eventually joined Warwick's rebellion. 
> 
> At Eton, and at other public schools of the time, fagging was the practice of having young/new students wait on older/senior students. It was a highly ritualized and often cruel form of hazing and has since been abolished. Eton students refer to their teachers as beaks and to morning recess as Chambers. 
> 
> And speaking of Eton, I don't even know anymore, but you sort of have to watch this: http://www.theguardian.com/education/video/2012/oct/18/gangnam-style-parody-eton-style-video


	4. 1906

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward and Warwick have a long overdue conversation, as do Cecily and Betsy. Also, George comes to Middleham for Christmas.

**Chapter 4. 1906**

_February  
Boodle's Club, London_

Edward holds the glass up to the light, admiring the liquid gold of his favorite scotch. He's in a private room at his club, waiting for Warwick. 

He sips his drink and sighs heavily. He's not looking forward to this meeting, but he's past dealing with Warwick with kid gloves. It's time for his cousin to face the facts, see the world is changing and embrace a new way of doing things. 

Edward is not by nature a risk taker. He is a thinker and a planner. But there is nothing he loathes more than a missed opportunity. Twice already, Warwick has used his influence with the board to block Edward's plans. Now, he's determined not to be thwarted by the man's stubborn adherence to the old ways. 

Warwick's strength has been in the vast chain of wool mills and steel factories he owns in the north, and thanks to him, York & Sons is heavily invested in British industry. He's managed to turn an impressive profit on these ventures, despite restive workers and tariff problems. That Warwick has done this mostly just with sheer force of will is not lost on Edward. But the world is not desperate to buy Manchester cloth or Sheffield steel anymore, and the workers are restive and willing to press their advantage to forge a better life. That's just as well, he thinks. All good things must end, if only to make way for better things. 

But Warwick is stubborn, and will not see things Edward's way. In the past, he's tried to reason with him, the way one might use a wooden mallet to tamp down the errant corner of a rug. But now, Warwick is in need of a steel hammer, and Edward is happy to wield it. 

Edward spies him at the end of the hallway and waves him over. As always, Warwick cuts a striking figure. He's tall, powerfully built, and has the sort of commanding presence that makes it difficult to look away. Although they are not alike in appearance, Warwick puts Edward in mind of his father. They have the same determination, the same limitless energy. Edward ignores the stab of fresh pain at the sudden memory and puts it away for another time. He cannot afford the self-indulgence of grief and sentiment, not with Warwick. 

When his cousin nears the table, Edward stands and claps him heartily on the shoulder. "Dick. You're late," he says in mock indignation. 

Warwick chuckles. "I'm sorry. I just came in on the train this morning, and it's been a chore getting here at all, Ned."

Edward shakes his head. "No, no, it's nothing. I just got here myself." 

He lets Warwick settle in and they ask after each other's families, exchanging pleasantries and gossip over the first course of the elaborate luncheon. But they've barely been served the main course when Warwick gets straight to the point. 

"So. To what do I owe the pleasure of this sudden invitation?" 

Ned smiles at his cousin's Neville directness. "Just wanted to talk." 

"Oh?" 

Edward chews thoughtfully. "Well. There's a new investment opportunity. I wanted to bring it to your attention." He notices with satisfaction the change in the other man's expression. "You know, before I put it to the whole board."

Warwick smiles easily, but Edward can see the slight twitch of his jaw, the hard set of his mouth a signal of his true feelings. "What sort of investment?" 

"America."

"Ha!" Warwick claps his hands in apparent triumph. "Well, that's hardly new. We've been over there for decades now."

"Yes, I know. American railroads, British steel," he recites the company mantra easily. "But how much longer, Dick? Your friends at No. 10 are being especially troublesome. No more long work hours, no more lockouts. If Asquith has his way, and I imagine he will, the factories may as well shut down."

Warwick scoffs. "Nonsense. It's all a pendulum and if it's swinging one way today, it will swing back tomorrow. Right now, it's the Liberals and their reforms. Then the Tories will talk up the spirit of free enterprise in a year. We just have to weather the storm." 

"All the more reason to try our hand at something new. Something that will tide us over while we wait for things to go back to how they were. That's where America comes in, see? Anthony says--"

"Anthony? Your brother-in-law?" 

"Yes, he--"

Color floods Warwick's face, his rage just barely in check. "You would take advice from a man who, until last year, was selling plywood out of a shed in Northampton?" 

Edward takes a long and studied sip of wine, watching his cousin through narrow eyes. He's never had much use for Warwick's quick temper. "Who better," he says evenly, "to advise us about money than someone who has struggled so much to earn it?" 

Warwick lets out a derisive grunt. "And what does the sainted Anthony suggest?" 

"There's a company, American Telephone and Telegraph that's looking for an investor." 

"Telephones?" Warwick's disdain is apparent. "It's a fad, Ned. It will never take off. Not to where we can make money from it."

Edward raises an eyebrow. "A lot of people said that about the motor car."

"Yes, but that's not the same thing, is it?"

"With telephones, we have proof, Dick. Have you been to New York? There are so many telegraph lines over the city, it's like a giant spider's web. If that's anything to go on, we're sitting on a gold mine." 

Warwick is quiet, pensive. He fiddles with his coffee cup and fixes Edward with a steady, questioning gaze. "What if I don't agree?"

"I'm not sure you can do that. I'm announcing the decision to the board next week." 

Warwick's been holding himself very still, unusually calm. But now his temper breaks like a wave on the shore, and he slaps the table hard with the flat of his hand. "For God's sake, Ned." Whatever other words he wants to say are drowned out in a sea of hot wrath. 

Wary of making a scene at his own club, Edward looks for a way to help Warwick save face. "Listen, Dick. It's not that I'm not grateful. What you did when my father died, taking care of my mother, and watching out for George and Dickon, there is no thanks enough for all that." He pauses, hoping to mollify. "And what you did for York too, getting the company through a difficult time. I'm utterly grateful.

"But it's my company now, and I like to think I care for its success as much as you do."

Warwick lets out a long breath and tries to be conciliatory. "Listen, Ned. Of course it's your company. But you're still very young and--"

"How long are you going to lean on that, Warwick?" Edward cuts the other man off and notes with satisfaction as the blood drains from his face. "I won't be this young forever. How much longer am I supposed to be your puppet on a string?"

"Careful, Edward." Warwick's tone is even but it's clear he's lost control of the conversation, and of Edward. "I have other options, you know."

"Oh, no doubt," Edward says icily. "But with York, and with me, cousin, this is your last chance. Back me on this deal." He doesn't say more, doesn't need to. The gauntlet's been thrown, and they both know it. 

"And what's in it for me?" 

Edward chuckles. He likes negotiation far more than confrontation, and Warwick knows it. "Whatever you want, I suppose. Within reason." 

"Hmm." Warwick matches Edward's expression. "I'll have to think of something worthwhile." 

\--

_April  
Baynard Place, London_

Betsy balances her cup of tea gingerly on one hand. She's sitting in the stiffest chair in the room, but she accepts the discomfort with grace, knowing this is Cecily's way of putting her in place. She's a bit surprised at the woman's enduring pettiness, but it's directed at Ned and not at her, and she does not take it personally, at least not too much. 

"Ned and I," she begins carefully, "have found a place." 

Cecily gives her a sharp look over the rim of her tea cup. "Oh?"

"Yes. In Kensington. It's a townhome." Betsy smiles easily. "Nothing as grand as this, of course."

"Of course," Cecily echoes with a smirk. "When do you make the move?" 

"Ned wants to wait until the election is over, until he's certain how things look for the next year."

Cecily nods. The fortunes of the company often shift with a change in the winds at Westminster, and Cecily is used to the uncertainty. She's impressed that Betsy understands this though she'd never admit such a thing in public. Betsy has adjusted to the life of a countess a little too quickly for Cecily's liking, wearing the latest tailored trends, attending the most fashionable soirees, spending her husband's money with a frequency and flair that Cecily might even have admired in a different woman. 

"And how are you furnishing the place?" 

Betsy sips her tea, wary of making too hasty an overture. "That's why I wanted to see you. I'd love your help in choosing just the right things. I see what you've done here and--"

"Please, Elizabeth." Cecily scoffs. "I appreciate the thought, but you don't have to make nice with me." 

"That's not--"

"I don't like games. You're not a babe in the woods. I don't credit you with so much innocence."

"I don't think you credit me with much of anything." Betsy sets down her tea cup and fixes her mother-in-law with a stare. "But it doesn't matter. I'm not here to make friends." 

"Are you threatening me?" 

"No, I'm making you an offer."

"What can you offer me?" 

Betsy smiles and moves in for the final shot. "A truce. A chance for you to mend things with Ned."

"And if I don't?" 

Betsy shrugs. "We're not that different, you and I." 

"Oh, I don't think--"

"I love my family, and I'll do anything, anything at all, to protect them." She raises an eyebrow at Cecily, making sure she's perfectly understood. 

Cecily huffs in response and turns her attention back to her tea. Silence stretches out between them, disturbed only by the gentle clinking of fine bone china. At length, Cecily nods in her daughter-in-law's direction, grateful but deeply wary. 

"I think it would be good if you and Ned would come to visit more often. Bring little Lizzie as well." 

Betsy is a gracious victor. "Of course. We'll all be one happy family," she says, with admirable lack of irony. 

\--

_November  
Middleham Manor_

Anne is drowning. She's surrounded by a murky sludge, and though she swims and thrashes, her arms finds no purchase against the current. She gasps for air but her lungs fill with thick black poison instead, and she's dragged down into the darkening waters of the sea. 

Somewhere in the depths of her conscious, she knows she is dreaming, that the sea is really her bed, that the water is not real. But the thought brings no comfort. 

She is dying. 

\--

Isabel raises Anne up from the pillow as another spasm of coughing racks her body. She thumps her sister's back a few times, and Anne doubles over the side of the bed and retches into a bucket, bringing up phlegm mottled with dark blood. 

The sight of it frightens Isabel, though the nurse appointed to watch Anne looks at the mess with approval before taking the bucket away. "A few more coughs like that, and you'll have brought it all out. Feel right as rain soon enough, I'm sure."

Her patient nods weakly and flops back against the pillows. Isabel waves the nurse off and stretches out next to her sister. "Oh, I can't stand her."

Anne tries to laugh, but only a croaking sound comes out. Alarmed, Isabel frowns at her. "Are you alright? Should I bring nurse back?" 

"It's nothing," Anne whispers. "Need water. Maybe some sleep too."

"Yes, of course." She helps Anne drink and waits quiety until her sister's heavy eyelids close and her breathing becomes even and shallow. It's only when she's certain Anne is asleep that Isabel finally relaxes. 

It has been a harrowing few weeks. First, their parents had rowed loudly and publicly after a wedding in the village, and disconcerted, the earl had left for London, with only a vague promise to return by Christmas. His countess, more sullen than usual, had withdrawn into herself, barely speaking to her daughters and merely going through the motions of running the estate. It was only Anne's sudden illness that had roused her into action.

Isabel had never seen such energy from her mother. She'd tended to Anne herself, mopping fever sweat from her daughter's brow every night, then throwing herself into estate work in the morning, visiting the cottages and ministering to the tenants with more spirit than she'd done in months. 

For her part, Isabel is both awed and distressed. It's good to see her mother take charge again, and there's nothing Isabel loves more than the accomplished smile that crosses her mother's face on rare occasion. But there is an unspoken wedge between all of them, and their mother's refusal to even speak of their father leaves Isabel confused and lonely. 

The only bright spot has been the regular letters from George. The notes themselves are unremarkable. George recounts life at school, the occasional anecdote about shopkeepers in Windsor, and whispered gossip from his visits home to London. The fact that he's writing to her at all is noteworthy. Nobody has remarked on it, of course, but Isabel sees her mother's mouth turn up at the corners when the letters come and she runs off to the garden to read them in private. 

She knows why he's writing to her, of course, and it's not just because she's his favorite cousin. She's only fifteen, much too young to entertain any serious thoughts about George, but a tiny bud of hope blooms with every new letter. She writes back to him, careful to ape his casual manner, never to say more than she should. She leaves the important questions unasked, and his letters reveal no answer. 

Isabel is glad though that a different chance will present itself soon. George is coming to Christmas at Middleham. 

\-- 

Anne sits up in bed, staring out of the window. The greens have long since turned a dull brown, and the leafless trees cast weird shadows against the steel-grey sky. On any other day, her mind would have turned to the winter, to the woodland creatures asleep under the ground, to the magic of the first snowflakes, and then to Christmas, her favorite time of the year. 

But this year, nothing is right with the world. Nobody will tell her exactly what happened, not even Isabel. At first, Anne is not too worried. It's perfectly normal for her father to be in London, especially when there's so much work to be done. But it's strange that he's stayed away for so long. 

He's back for Christmas though, and Anne is glad they'll have his company, but also frightened that he'll leave again. In the back of her mind, it is all her mother's fault. Somehow her mother has found this new way to punish Anne and distance her from her father. She's not sure she can forgive this latest transgression; she's not sure she wants to. 

She turns cold eyes on her mother. "Is Papa here yet?" 

Nan raises an eyebrow at Anne. There is color in her daughter's cheeks now, and if the anger blazing in her eyes is any sign, she'll be back to her usual self soon enough. "Not yet. He's on the late train."

"Good. I can't wait to see him," Anne says, pretending to plump a pillow so she doesn't have to look at her mother. "In fact, I think I'll just sleep a bit until he gets here. You can go."

Nan bristles at the dismissal, but recognizes it as a child's petulance. "Anne, are you feeling well enough to leave your room? If you are, perhaps you can be at tea. We'll be in the library after your father arrives." 

Anne eyes widen in surprise. This is a surprising gesture from her mother. "I feel well enough, though..." Her voice trails off as she lifts her fingers to her unkempt hair. 

Nan smiles. "Oh, that won't be a problem. I'll send Scrope to help you with that. Perhaps that new white frock as well, yes?" 

Anne nods, still a bit disconcerted by her mother's sudden graciousness, but willing to go along with it, at least for the time being. Sensing that a good turn deserves one in return, she gives her mother her best smile. "Iggy says you've been here every night, Mama. Thank you."

Nan scoffs and shakes her head. "Nonsense. You'll have better things to thank me for one day, Anne." On impulse, she reaches out to brush hair off Anne's forehead, but she flinches and Nan draws her hand away with a start. Sighing, she withdraws. "I'll see you in an hour, young lady." 

\--

He finds Isabel sitting by the edge of the frozen pond, staring out across the greens. George is not sure she wants company, but things at the manor are tense, and he has no desire to be a polite buffer between Warwick and his moping wife. 

"Hello," he calls out as softly as possible. But Isabel is startled anyway and she turns around sharply, a scowl on her face. 

"Oh. It's you, George." 

"Sorry to have disappointed you." He's only joking with her, but he sees the brief flash of pain on her face and regrets his glibness.

"I'm sorry, Isabel. If you want me to leave, I'll just--"

"Now I'm glad you're here. I'm glad you decided to come to Christmas after all." She flashes him a quick smile, and for some reason, his knees suddenly feel like water. He drops down onto the cold ground next to her to keep from looking like a complete idiot. 

"To be fair, I didn't really have much of a choice. I didn't want to spend the holidays with Ned and Betsy, and Mother didn't want me by myself in London." 

Isabel nods. "It's too bad Dickon didn't come with you."

"Dickon had to..." He hesitates, torn between wanting to tell Isabel the truth and not wanting to reveal the real reason his mother and brother are now in Switzerland. After a moment's thought, he decides the secret is Richard's alone, and it is not for him to reveal it. "Dickon had to travel with our mother. She's been wanting to visit our aunt Isabel for years, but she doesn't like to travel alone."

Isabel seems satisfied with his answer, or she's simply stopped paying attention. All her focus is on the tiny blades of frozen grass she's trying to uproot from the edge of the pond. 

"Do you miss him? Dickon, I mean. When he's not with you?" 

George frowns. Other than school, he can't recall a time when he and Richard have not been together. But he's never given much thought to whether he misses him, whether Richard's presence is that important to his life. He wonders idly if his brother is missing him. He shakes his head and shrugs. 

Isabel seems disappointed. "If Anne went off somewhere, I'd miss her terribly." Then, without warning, her shoulders slump and she begins to cry. George is startled, and uncertain what to do, he offers her his hankerchief. She takes it and scrubs at her face, a rush of words spilling out of her mouth. "Oh, George. Annie almost...she was...we would have lost her and..." Her voice trails off as a fresh crying jag begins. 

This time though, he's a bit more sure of himself. He pulls her into his arms and rubs her back until the sobs run out. "There, there," he says, knowing the words are utterly useless. "She's better now though, isn't she? Anne will be fine. You'll see."

Isabel picks her head up off his shoulder and stares intently at him. Too late he notices the way her eyes slide down to his mouth, and before he can pull away, she's thrown her arms around his neck and pressed her lips hard against his. 

Surprised, George lets the kiss go on for a moment. But she's clumsy and unpractised, and after a moment, he pulls away and holds Isabel at arms length. Her blue eyes are wide and filled with excitement, and just a hint of something more dark and primal. Her hands are still pressed to his jacket, and he can feel the warmth of her slim fingers through the tweed. 

He lets out the breath he's been holding. "That's not how you kiss, silly girl."

George brings his hand to her face and draws her close, and in the space of a second, he commits himself to this feeling, a sense that everything in this one moment is perfect and exactly as it should be. "Let me show you."

\--


	5. 1907

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anne celebrates her eleventh birthday with her closest family and friends.

**5\. 1907**

_January 1907  
Geneva, Switzerland_

Richard pulls his coat tight around his body and shoves his hands into his pockets. It is a brisk morning, and Richard is colder and more resentful than usual. Ordinarily, he enjoys a stroll through the city. It is a wonderful blend of the ordinary and the extraordinary. Squat buildings with fabulous domes compete with church spires for dominance, the lake is ringed with snow-capped mountains, and old men play chess with giant wooden pieces in the square. 

But today, he sees none of it. He's on his way to see a specialist for his back, on his aunt Isabel's recommendation. He's walking a few paces behind her and his mother as they stop to stare at things in shop windows and speak in low whispers that remind Richard of the silly school girls that hang around the cricket grounds at school. The idea of his mother being anything like a school girl is so incongruous, Richard has to choke down the sudden bubble of laughter in his throat. 

"Richard, come along. Keep up, lad." Isabel, as stern as she is elegant, is on a mission she pursues relentlessly. 

Richard deeply resents being the object of her plans, but the scowl on his mother's face keeps him from saying any of the choice words that are on the tip of his tongue. "Yes, Auntie," he mutters, as he follows them like a sullen shadow. 

After another half-hour trudging through the near-frozen streets of the city, they arrive at their destination. It is a somber grey building with an oaken door and it reminds Richard of a crypt more than anything else. But he resists the urge to pull a face, choosing instead to sigh heavily as they take their seats in the doctor's waiting room. 

"You'll like Dr. Schroth," Isabel says, without preamble. "His treatment is built around exercise, you see, not just mechanics. It might free you from wearing that brace altogether." She waves at the various pictures on the wall, demonstrating the success of the good doctor's methods. "Also, he's quite plain-spoken, which I think is always a good thing in a doctor." 

She raises an eyebrow meaningfully in his direction. "And he's discreet, which is an even better thing."

Richard scoffs. "Haven't I already been seen by all the doctors I need?"

"Nonsense. Your mother says that contraption's not been any help at all." 

Richard is about to interject when he catches the look on Cecily's face. If she's going to stem Isabel's tide of words, she's showing no sign of it. Instead, she gives him a sidelong glance that urges silence, but Richard is in no mood for warnings. 

"You make it sound like I'm some sort of cripple, Auntie. But I'm not." 

"No, of course not." Isabel gives him a sheepish half-smile. "And I never intended to suggest it. I'm sorry. But I heard of this new method of treatment, and it seemed just the thing for your problem."

"But why?"

"Because," she says simply, "you are my nephew and I wanted to help. That is reason enough."

This is not a proper answer, but in a way, it is all he needs. He's here in a strange city at the invitation of a relative he barely knows, but who is determined to help him anyway. It's because he's a York, as York as Aunt Isabel herself, and to be York means to care about your family. But above all, it means to win, at all things, always. A York is never beaten, whether by another, or by themselves. If you cannot win on your own, then your family will hold you up until you can. But on no account are you ever vanquished. To be defeated is to die. 

He squares his shoulders and nods in Isabel's direction, meeting her eyes evenly. "I think I understand now."

\-- 

_Summer 1907  
London_

Anne pouts as her sister primps in front of the mirror, adjusting the bow of her dress and trying on her new hat in different positions on her head. 

"What do you think, Annie? Should I wear this one, or the blue one with the ribbons? I think the blue suits me better, but this one is new."

"Don't you have something better to do than be a giant dress-up doll?" 

"Oh, Annie, you're just in a bad mood because you don't get to go with me." 

Anne grumbles, hurt not only by being left out, but by Isabel's obvious mastery of the situation. "Why can't I go to Wimbledon with you? It's only tennis. It's not as if you're going to a party that I'm too young for."

Isabel laughs in that tinkling, annoying way that sets Anne's teeth on edge. A sharp retort is on the edge of her tongue, but she notices the faint blush on her sister's face. "Oh, goodness, Iggy. Are you going with George?" 

Isabel giggles and flushes as she tries to explain. "Well, not just George. Betsy and Ned will be there too."

Anne pulls a face. "I hope that will keep you from making moony eyes at George then."

"I do not make--"

"Yes, you do," Anne counters with a pout. She has no idea what Isabel sees in George. He has a nice face, but Anne finds him dull and trying, and she hates that Isabel seems to enjoy his company more than hers. "Besides, what am I supposed to do all alone while you're gadding about with your George?" 

"He's not my..." Isabel says, frustrated as much with her own feelings as with Anne's behavior. "You won't be all alone. Mama's taking you to her dressmaker's today."

"What? Why?" Anne cringes at the thought of spending an entire day in a Mayfair shop with her mother. 

"For your birthday, silly. Now that you're older, it's only proper you should take more interest in your clothes." Isabel catches the look on her sister's face and relents. She throws her hat on the bed and sits down next to Anne. "You know, it's actually quite nice. Mama goes to Maison Lucile, which is the best ever. She'll let you be fitted for all sorts of things, Annie. It will be great fun."

Anne could not see how she would enjoy it, but Isabel's enthusiasm is hard to deny, and for her sister's sake, Anne puts on a wan smile. "Alright. I suppose I might like it."

Isabel laughs. "And if you don't, I swear I will eat this horrible hat for dinner!" 

\--

_Maison Lucile  
Hanover Square, London_

Nan watches in amusement as Anne is swathed in silk and tulle while being prodded and pinned by a bevy of seamstresses. Anne had been difficult at first, wearing a grim pout on the drive from their home to the dressmaker's salon, but no girl her age could truly resist being made the center of attention, a princess for a day, and before long, Anne had gotten into the spirit of things and let herself be carried away. Now she's standing in front of a long mirror trailing a length of blue silk and wearing the most outrageous hat Nan has ever seen.

She clucks her tongue disapprovingly at the dresser helping Anne. "She's meant to be a little girl at a garden party, not a starlet about to make her debut on the West End." 

The dresser protests. "But the plumed hats are absolutely the latest thing in Paris and--" Nan cuts off the words with a cold glare. She cannot imagine why an eleven year old girl would need a feathered hat, whether of the latest fashion or not. Chastened, the dresser withdraws, giving mother and daughter a few minutes by themselves. 

Anne giggles. "It is a bit too much, isn't it?" She holds the hat up against her dress. "Maybe for my birthday?" Nan shakes her head and chuckles when Anne sighs theatrically in mock resignation. 

"Are you enjoying yourself, dear?" Nan asks, patting her hand. 

Anne takes the armchair across from her mother and sits down, remembering at the last minute to be as ladylike as possible. "Yes, I am rather enjoying this. Isabel will be so smug when I tell her." 

Nan laughs. "Well, I thought it was about time you were introduced to the world of fashion, little moth." Too late, she sees Anne blanch at the endearment, a stark reminder of the father she misses so desperately. She tries to find the words to explain, but despite her usual eloquence, nothing comes to her. 

Nan sighs and gives up. It is not the first time she's felt defeated by this daughter, and she worries it will not be the last. 

Anne gives her an uncertain look from under her long eyelashes. "Mama, may I ask you something?"

"Yes, of course." Nan asks, distracted by her own thoughts.

"Do you think..." Anne's voice trails off as her face colors from hesitation. "Do you think maybe I could go away to school next term?" 

Nan gapes at her. "What? Where did this come from?" 

Anne bristles a little. "Well, I've just been thinking that it might be nice, and Miss Smith mentioned there are good schools now for girls. I just--"

"Who ever heard of such a thing? It's vulgar. I'll have to have a word with Miss Smith. It's not for the governess to fill your head with such nonsense."

"It's not nonsense!" Anne crosses her arms and glares at her mother in defiance. "If it's so vulgar, why are other girls going to school?"

"You're the daughter of the earl of Warwick, not some shopkeeper. For goodness sake!" 

"It's not just shopkeepers though, is it? Cousin Agnes is at school at Wycombe Abbey. If she can go, why can't I?" 

Nan snorts in derision. "Wycombe Abbey. Ha! I have no idea what Lady FitzHugh was thinking. That poor girl. What is she going to do when she's finished at that school?"

Anne pouts and mumbles in response. "Maybe she'll go on to university."

"University? What a proposterous notion! What on earth will she do afterwards? Go on one of those awful suffragette marches, I suppose." 

"I had no idea you were so narrow-minded, Mama. I bet Papa would feel differently."

Nan glares at her daughter, eyes narrowed and angry. "I should have guessed this was about your father. You should speak to him, Anne. I hope you'll get the answer you want from him." 

She smiles at her daughter. "Your father is rather good at breaking the rules, after all." 

"What does that mean?" Anne asks, a confused frown on her face. But Nan is no longer in the mood. A day that began with such cheer has ended on a sour note, and she wants nothing more than to retreat. 

"I think it's time we went home." 

\--

The day of Anne's birthday dawns bright and warm, just as she likes it. She would have preferred to be home at Middleham, but a London birthday is just as exciting, and she finds her feet barely touch the ground when she wakes. The world of an eleven-year old girl is full of adventure and promise, and Anne is determined that no clouds will throw shadows on her day. 

She lets the maid dress her, not even fussing when she prods and pulls at Anne's hair. The smile on her face widens into a brilliant grin when her sister waltzes into the room with a festively wrapped box in her arms. 

"Happy birthday, Annie!" Isabel throws her arms around her sister's neck and kisses her soundly on the cheek. She shoves the gift into Anne's lap. 

"Thank you," Anne says, barely over her surprise at the size of the gift. She toys with the ribbon around the box. "What is it?" 

"You'll have to open it and see, won't you?" 

Anne's eyes widen. "Can I open it now? Mama usually makes me wait until later, and--"

"Oh goodness, Anne. Just open it, will you?" 

Given permission to break the rules, Anne rips off the ribbons and paper as fast as she can. When she lifts the lid off the box, a mess of blue feathers and ribbons. 

"Iggy, it's the hat! The one from Maison Lucile. How did you get it?" 

Isabel laughs. "Never mind about that. Do you like it?" 

"Yes, very much." Anne puts the hat on and beams at her sister. "But Mama will hate it. She did not think this was appropriate."

Isabel makes a face. "Nonsense. It was Mama who showed me the thing in the first place. She thought you could wear it to your party tomorrow."

"Really?" Anne frowns. She can't reconcile the shrewish woman who rowed with her at the atelier with the one who buys her a frivolous hat as a present. She thinks she will never understand her mother, and wonders if her mother feels the same way. 

"And Annie, there's something else." Isabel's gaze slides over to the maid who is still picking up pieces of wrapping paper from the floor. She drops her voice to a whisper. "Papa's home."

\--

Warwick casts an interested eye over his daughters, both seated primly on the settee, as if they are waiting to be inspected. His ventures now take him frequently from home, but in their silent glances, he senses reproach rather than affection. The state of his marriage is not hidden from his daughters, although he doubts they are privy to the truth. Neither Nan's dignity nor her pride would have allowed her to reveal it. 

He sighs. "So, girls, what mischief have you been up to?" 

Though uneasy, Isabel smiles at him. "We are angels, Papa. As always."

He laughs, grateful for the break in the tension. "And you, little moth. Very excited about your birthday?" 

Anne is unusually quiet. "Yes, Papa." He waits for her to say more, but she merely stares at him, wide eyes full of questions that he cannot yet answer. 

"Well, I'm glad. I have presents. For both of you," he says expansively. "Isabel first, although I'm saving the best for last," he adds with a wink at Anne. He hands Isabel a long velvet box. 

She's tentative as she takes it, resting it in her palm before opening it with a frown. The box reveals a slender silver chain with a large pendant made from a blue gem. It cost Warwick a fortune, but his daughter is underwhelmed. 

"Thank you, Papa," she says demurely, gently closing the box. "It's lovely."

He'd expected a bit more enthusiasm, but he suspects she's making a point. Her mood is the only protest available to her, after all. It's not lost on his daughters that his presents become more lavish as his absences become more frequent. 

He reaches under his chair and pulls out a much larger box, this one of simple cardboard and slides it over to Anne. "And this is for you. A proper present for a proper girl. Happy birthday." 

Anne eyes widen in excitement. "Thank you," she says, but as she sticks her fingers in the top of the box to open it, he can feel her hesitation. 

"What is it, Anne? Don't you want to open it?" 

"It's just that Mama says I should wait until the party to open my presents and I--"

"It's not a problem. I've already spoken to your mother." Even he's surprised at how easy it is to lie. 

Anne nods, and the smile that spreads across her face is the most satisfying thing Warwick has seen in months. She pries open the top of the box and begins to pull out the wads of brown paper used as packing. Impatient, she turns it over to shake out her prize, but Warwick puts a hand on her arm to stop her. 

"Don't do that. You might break it."

She frowns and sets the box down carefully on the floor and roots around in it until her hands come in contact with a hard and heavy object. She draws it out, and then gasps. 

"Oh, Papa. It's...it's perfect. Thank you so much." She runs her fingers carefully over the leather binding of a brand new camera. It's one of the new folding Brownie models, smaller and lighter that any camera she's seen before. 

"Do you know how it works?" Warwick asks, moving to sit next to her so he can help her with the hinges. As they explore the camera together, with Isabel chiming in from time to time, their cares are forgotten, and for a fleeting moment, Warwick is home again. 

\--

"Nan." 

Her hands still over her jewelry box as she hears his voice. She catches his reflection in her dressing mirror and gives him a perfunctory nod. "Anne showed me your birthday present. Well done." 

"Yes, well. It's easy enough to please a little girl."

Nan raises an eyebrow at the mirror. Whether he intends it or not, his message hits home. "As opposed to me?" 

"I never said that. But..." His voice trails off, and she catches the hesitation in his voice, a close match to the strain on his face. 

"How long will you be staying?" 

He sighs. "That depends entirely on you." He approaches her, and tentatively puts a hand on the back of her chair. "Let me stay. You know how sorry I am. Can't you forgive me?" 

She swallows down the lump of emotion in her throat and schools herself to calm, careful to keep her eyes trained on her own reflection. "I can. Or at least I did forgive you. But now--"

"For God's sake, Nan. It's been twenty years. How long am I to be in the weeds? How long should I do penance for my one mistake?" 

She lets the words wash over her, feeling rather than hearing them. Nan can forgive him his vanity, his greed, maybe even the ambition that threatens to bring him low. But she cannot forgive him his heart. That one thing that should have belonged to her alone, he'd given freely to another. That he'd fathered a child with another woman didn't matter so much. That he'd loved that other woman was too bitter a pill to swallow. What woman can live with such humiliation? What marriage can survive such despair? 

Abruptly, she snaps the box of jewels shut, the sound startling him. She is made of stern stuff, and she will fight for what remains to her. She may not have love, but she will keep her dignity. 

"I think you should stay," she says simply, turning to face him. "There is already a bit of talk, and I don't want our marriage to be the stuff of London gossip. I don't want to have to explain all this to the children.

"But know this, Dick. Whatever came before is gone. This is all that's left. We will be earl and countess, but nothing more." 

She sees a flash of protest in his eyes, the need to explain himself. But a moment later, it is gone. The eyes that meets hers now are cold, business-like. 

"Very well." He holds his arm out to her in a polite and practiced gesture. "Shall we?" 

\--

Richard scans the throng at Anne's birthday garden party. Warwick and his wife have put together a grand affair, and though Richard wonders why a little girl needs such a lavish celebration, he suspects Anne's big day is just an excuse to have a huge party in the middle of summer. 

Anne herself is nowhere in sight. She'd been wearing the most outrageous hat he'd ever seen and had dutifully received all her guests when the party began. She'd even given a little speech of sorts, a young girl thanking her guests to much applause and indulgent laughter. But afterwards, when the conversation had turned to more adult topics, he'd lost track of her. 

He wonders if Isabel might know where to find her, but she's so bent on chasing after George that she's probably forgotten she has a sister, at least for the moment. He decides to try the huge tent that functioned as a makeshift drawing room for this party, and there he finds Anne sitting on a lounge chair with her shoes off and stockinged feet stretched out in front of her. 

"Why are you hiding here?" 

She jolts to attention at his voice, but relaxes when she catches sight of him. "Not hiding. I just got a bit bored." She gives him a sheepish grin. "And I wanted to play with this," she says, holding her camera out to him. 

He takes it from her carefully, turning it around in his hands to inspect it. "Very nice. Didn't know you liked to take pictures."

"I never really have before. But I think I'm going to like it a lot." He hands the camera back to her and she points it at him and pretends to click. "See? I like it already." 

He laughs. "Well, I look forward to seeing your pictures of Brighton Beach on all those postcards then."

She misses the joke entirely. "Oh, I'm not that good. It's just..." She brings the camera back up to her eyes. "When you look through it, the world is somehow smaller. But also bigger. Do you understand?"

He nods, even though he's sure she's making no sense. "What are you going to take pictures of?" 

"Middleham, I think. When we go home." There is a distinct note of sadness in her voice, and when she lifts her eyes back to his, he thinks he sees tears pooling in the corner of her eyes. 

"Anne?" 

She scrubs at her eyes with the back of her hand, wetting the lace cuff of her dress in the process. She seems vexed by this, so he offers her his handkerchief. But she shakes her head, reassuring him she's not crying. They lapse into a silence that is neither awkward nor especially comfortable. 

"Dickon, did your parents ever row?" 

He's startled by the question, but once he's processed the words, it's easy enough to answer. "I was only eight when my father was killed in the war. I don't really remember anything." He lowers his voice and asks very gently. "Are your parents in a row, Anne?" 

"I...I don't know. It's all been very strange. Mama and Papa barely speak to each other, and that's when Papa is home. Most of the time, he's gone anyway." Now the tears begin to fall, streaming down her cheeks. "And nobody will tell me anything, not even Iggy."

He has nothing to offer, so he settles for giving her the handkerchief again, and this time she takes it. Several minutes pass before she's calm again, and he wonders if he's meant to do more, whether he should give her a hug, or perhaps fetch her mother. 

He leans over to put his arms around her, but stops abruptly when he feels a pain in his leg. He's been carrying Anne's birthday gift in his pocket, and now it's about to injure him. Cursing under his breath, he retrieves the gift and holds it out to her. "I almost forgot. I got this for you when I was in Geneva. Meant to give it to you before, really. Happy birthday."

The change in her mood is instant. She grins at him and grabs the present, ripping through the paper in about a second to reveal a thin, leather-bound book. 

Much to his chagrin though, she seems disappointed. "Is this a book of fairy tales?" When he nods, she glares at him. "Thank you, but do you still think I'm a baby who likes to read princess stories?" 

Richard has never thought of her as a baby, but she's so petulant, he's tempted to treat her like a child. He decides against it and offers an explanation instead. 

"These aren't ordinary fairy tales, Anne. These are special. Here, the princesses aren't just pretty girls locked up in castles. They're warriors and leaders, and it's the fair princess who rescues the dark prince."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Dr. Schroth is not a real person. But the Schroth method is a common therapy for individuals with scoliosis. It was developed in Germany in the 1920s by a young woman who had scoliosis and is still in use today. 
> 
> 2\. Maison Lucile was the atelier of fashion designer and entrepreneur Lucy, Lady Duff-Gordon. Although she was not even remotely French, she believed that giving her establishment a French name would make it more popular. She was right. She also trained professional models and organized the first-ever runway shows. 
> 
> 3\. The Kodak Brownie 2A was the first truly portable camera designed for use by amateurs and beginning photographers. It remained in popular use until about 1936. 
> 
> 4\. Public/boarding schools for girls had existed since the late 1880s, and some (like Wycombe Abbey) were prestigious and selective. By 1907, both Oxford and Cambridge admitted female students (at St Hilda's College and Newnham College, respectively). However, while middle class women who were training for professions like teaching and nursing needed formal education, this was not true for upper class women. As these women were more likely to inherit and/or marry, a formal education was considered unnecessary, and most were educated at home by tutors and governesses.


	6. Chapter 6. 1908

**Chapter 6. 1908**

_Eton College  
January 1908_

Richard bites into a slice of toast, noting that it is a bit soggy and mostly cold. But he reserves comment, choosing instead to stretch out his legs and give the young lad in front of him a curious stare. 

"So you're Lovell, are you?" 

"Yes, sir. It's my first week." The boy is impossibly tall for his age, taller than Richard. He has an unkempt fringe of fair hair that keeps falling on to his forehead despite the copious amounts of pomade he's put on to keep it in place. 

"And where are you from?" 

"Oxfordshire, sir." 

The boy seems nervous and Richard, remembering his own first days of fagging, lets up a little. "Tell you what, Lovell. Why don't you pour yourself a cup and we'll have a chat, shall we?"

The boy startles. "I beg your pardon?"

Richard doesn't answer, choosing to wave the boy into the chair in front of him. He sits awkwardly and makes tea for himself, obviously confused. 

Richard smiles genially. "Oxfordshire? Your father is the Baron Lovell then?"

"No. He passed away a few years ago."

"So you're the Baron Lovell now? Well, that is interesting. Maybe I should be making your tea?" 

The boy blanches, not amused by Richard's jest. "No, no, York. I didn't mean--"

"First, don't call me York. It makes me think my brother's in the room. Second, call me Richard, and in exchange, I'll call you Francis. And third, stop being so bloody nervous." 

A frown creeps into Francis' face, but Richard ignores it and picks up the day's paper, making a great show of reading all the important news above the fold. The truth is that much of it does not interest him and he'd rather turn to the back to catch up on the cricket. 

He folds the paper over, and gives his companion a genial smile. "Read the papers, Francis?" 

"I do, York...er, Richard."

"How's England?" 

Francis is confused and Richard watches in amusement as his eyes flit to the window. "Um, rainy, I think."

"No, I mean the cricket."

"Oh." Francis reddens, embarrassed. "I don't know. I don't follow the cricket."

Richard barely manages to contain his surprise. "Very strange, Francis. You're at Eton. You must take an interest in cricket, or at the very least, in rugger, or you'll be cast aside. It's very important not to be cast aside." He can't help but feel a bit superior to the younger boy, and in the interests of throwing him a rescue line, he continues in a friendly sort of way. "So what do you like?" 

"Well," Francis begins, "I'm not much for sport, but I do like a bit of adventure." 

"Adventure? Like in books?" 

"Yes, but also the real ones. Like the Shackleton stuff."

"Shackleton? That fellow who explores the north pole?" 

Francis clears his throat. "It's the south pole, actually. See, he's just set sail for the Antarctic from New Zealand. He should make landfall by the end of the month." 

Richard smirks. "Don't you mean ice fall?" 

\--

_Baynard House, London  
April 1908_

"Mother."

"Edward." Cecily waits until his coat and hat have been taken before she leads her son into her parlor. Since his ill-conceived marriage so many years ago now, Edward has been taking tea with her once a week. It is a chance to catch up, but mostly, it's a way to pretend that nothing has changed between them, a charade that suits them both. 

She rings for tea and settles down across from him, Edward has grown a mustache and there are fine lines around his eyes, making him older, a bit careworn. She swallows her maternal worry and keeps her tone deliberately light. "How's the baby?" 

He grins broadly, all his charm on perfect display. "She's perfect. Betsy's a bit tired, and Lizzie is confused, but she'll be over it soon, I'm sure.

"We're naming the baby after you, Mother."

"Yes, thank you." She smirks over her cup of tea. "I'm not unappreciative of the gesture. But I also know a bribe when I see one."

Edward scoffs. "Why do I need to bribe you? All you've got is this drafty old house anyway." He gives her a crooked half-smile. His mother's drafty old house is in fact one of the grandest mansions in all of London, and home to all the best memories of his childhood. That had been a different time. Sometimes, rarely, when he allows himself the luxury of self-pity, he misses the days when his greatest task was to find a frog to stick under George's pillow. 

But he's a grown man now, and can't afford the luxury of feeling sorry for himself. He clears his throat and pitches ahead with the week's big news. "You've heard about Campbell-Bannerman then?" 

"Just this morning, in fact." Cecily gives the conversation her full attention. "What a terrible business. He was fine last year, but to take ill so suddenly? I can't remember the last time a Prime Minister died while still in service!

"What will they do now?"

Edward frowns. "Not sure. I suppose Asquith will continue on in the government, and that's fine. I'm much more worried about Lloyd George, if you must know."

Cecily scoffs. "Lloyd George indeed." She has not forgotten the man's objection to the Boer War. He'd spat on her husband's sacrifice for king and country and she would never forgive him for it. 

Edward decides to ignore his mother's simmering resentment. It will be useful to him one day, but not just yet. "Lloyd George is going to be the new chancellor, Mother. His ideas are a bit radical. He wants to bring security to the working man, he says. But I think he's going to put the pinch on the rest of us. Land taxes, income taxes, that sort of thing."

She narrows her eyes and focuses on the problem. "Are we in particular danger, you think?" 

"No, I don't think so. Our estates are quite small, and there's really nothing from the York trusts the exchequer can touch. But it's going to hurt other people rather a lot. Important people."

Cecily's hand still as she pours herself another cup of tea. "You mean Warwick? I always thought he was a bit of a Liberal himself. A Lloyd George in the making, really." 

Edward nods. "He is, when it suits him. But our cousin is a hard man to satisfy even when everything is going well. If the new government bleeds him for taxes, he'll be impossible to deal with."

"Yes, but that's hardly your problem. Warwick is as wealthy as Croesus. I don't think he's at risk of ending up in a work house."

"No, that's true." Edward is wary, however. Warwick is already a wounded animal. Turning him into a cornered one won't go well at all. 

\--

_White City, London  
Late May 1908_

Isabel fans herself gently, careful not to disturb her hair or the feathers on her hat. The day is unusually hot, and she is beginning to regret this particular outing with George. 

The White City arena, so grand and spectacular a month ago when King George had declared the Olympic Games open, is now little more than a field of mud and grass. Gingerly, she lifts up her skirts and steps over a puddle. 

"George, do you think we could go now?" She slips her hand through the crook of his arm, enjoying the warmth she can feel through the linen of his coat. 

"Hmm? Maybe after this next race?" He gives her hand an absent-minded pat and turns his attention back to the field, leaving Isabel to her own thoughts. George is a polite host, sometimes even a charming one, but the pull of a pretty young girl is nothing compared to the lure of sport, and his attention is soon drawn off by chatter about one event or the other. 

She sighs and resigns herself to heat and boredom. Off in the distance, she can spy Anne, a tiny muddy smudge staring down into the box of her camera. Isabel shakes her head, appalled that Anne doesn't care about the hem of her dress dragging through the dirt, but also pleased that her sister is happy. 

There has been too little happiness in their lives recently. The breach between their parents is both invisible and constant, a state Isabel cannot quite understand. She's heard the rumors, of course, and dismissed them as well. She finds a strange sort of comfort in knowing that none of the vile things people say about Richard Neville could possibly be true. She tells herself it will be only a matter of time before her parents are reconciled and all will be right with the world.

She straightens her hat and pastes a smile back on her face as she sees a despondent Anne trampling back towards her.

"And why do you look like a kicked puppy?" 

Anne pouts and a wisp of stray hair blows off her face. Isabel laughs, feeling both affection and irritation in equal measure.

"I can't take good photos here. It's all just mud and shoes...and nonsense." 

Isabel laughs, a full-throated sort of sound she'd never make around anyone except her little sister. "You're a silly goose, Annie. Why don't you just take pictures of people? There are so many about!" 

"People are boring. They just stand around, don't they?" 

"On the contrary. People are lovely. And very unpredictable."

"That doesn't sound very photographic, if you must know."

Isabel laughs again. "Well, if you stop being such a sour puss, I might tell you a rumor I heard. From Betsy of all people." 

Anne is not a gossip, and Isabel knows it. But she also knows that her little sister hates to be left out, and it's best to get Anne off the topic of photography anyway. "What is it?" Anne says, eyes wide with curiosity. 

"Well, Betsy says..." Isabel lets her voice trail off and then leans down to whisper theatrically in her sister's ear, "there's going to be a rally soon. A suffragette rally." She winks conspiratorially at her sister. "But shush, Annie. You must keep it to yourself for now."

\--

_Coldharbour House_  
London  
Mid-June 1908 

Anne rests her spoon against the edge of her soup bowl and turns her eyes up demurely at the guest to her right. She takes a moment to study Richard who is home between terms at school. He's sixteen now and has a serious, nearly grown up demeanor. His hair is slicked back from his face and despite his pale, gaunt face, she thinks he might even be a bit handsome, like one of those tragic heroes in the novels about sad, consumpted ladies that Isabel likes to read in secret. 

Anne doesn't especially care if Richard is handsome. It's more important to her that he's amenable to her plans. 

"So, Dickon...are you free tomorrow?" 

He's been craning his neck to hear the conversation at the other end of the table and barely even acknowledges the question, so Anne asks again. 

Ultimately she gets an absent-minded answer. "Why? What's tomorrow?" 

Anne takes a deep breath and launches into her opening gambit, a pin prick of worry behind her words. "I was wondering if you might want to escort me somewhere." To her surprise, Richard is not angry. In fact, she has his full attention now. 

He grins at her. "Escort you somewhere? Sounds mysterious." He chuckles a bit. "Besides, aren't you a bit young to be escorted anywhere by a man?" 

"No, I'm not. Besides, you're not really a man yet."

All the blood runs out of his face. "Yes, I am. I'm sixteen. I can answer for my debts now, work in a factory now."

Anne likes having the upper hand for a change. "But you don't work in a factory, do you? Besides you're still in school." 

"Well, if you want me to take you somewhere, you're going about it the wrong way. Maybe ask me nicely next time."

"Oh, alright. If I ask you very politely, will you please escort me tomorrow?" 

"Where?" 

She leans closer and checks to make sure nobody else is listening. "See, there's this suffragette rally, and I really want to--"

He's appalled and hisses at her. "I can't take you to something like that. It's probably dangerous." 

She panics. "Shhh, shhh. Lower your voice. That's why I'm asking you. I thought maybe you'd take me, as a sort of favor." 

He sighs. "I didn't even know you were political. Why do you want to go?"

Anne bites her lip as she ponders the question. "I'm curious. It's not really about the politics though, is it? I just can't think of a reason why a woman shouldn't vote, whether Tory or Liberal." 

Richard nods. "I can't either, to be honest. But I also can't imagine a woman as prime minister." He laughs when Anne's eyes grow wide at the suggestion. "That's the concern, I think, at least as Viscount Helmsley put it. If you let women vote, then you must let them into Parliament, and if you let them into Parliament..."

"The world would end?" 

"No. But surely some heads would explode." 

Anne laughs. "Yes, and the first would be my mother's." While she still has Richard's attention, she makes her final gambit. She looks up at him through lowered lashes, trying to be coy like Isabel. "So you will take me to the rally then?" 

Richard raises an eyebrow at her, more amused than impressed. "Are you flirting with me?" 

Now it's Anne's turn to go pale. "No, of course not! Just asking nicely, as you said I should."

"I don't know, Anne. Those rallies can get out of hand quickly. It happened in York a few weeks ago. The police had to come out, and several people were hurt. If something happened to you, your parents would have my hide."

"No, you can just put the blame on me. They already think I'm wicked, so this will be just another scrape I got myself into."

He watches her intently for a moment before shaking his head. "I can't. It's not just your parents either. I would feel awful if something happened to you, if you were in any danger at all."

For a second, the wheels in Anne's mind stop turning. This is a thing she's never considered before. "Why?" 

"Why?!" He smiles at her, a gentle expression that flits across his face slowly and makes him seem like a little boy. He puts his hand over hers and fixes her with those grey-green eyes. "Because you're my favorite cousin, Anne." 

\--

_Manchester  
December 1908_

George watches Isabel flounce off to the ladies' powder room to fix her hair, which he's sure is a euphemism of sorts. She turns back and throws him a brilliant smile. For just a moment, he's mesmerized but as her figure retreats to the other end of the crowded hallway, the spell breaks, and a tiny ember of worry comes alive. 

He likes the attention he gets from Isabel, of course. But it also frightens him. She looks at him with unhindered affection and with such certainty that it unnerves him. He thinks Isabel has already built an entire life in her mind, of castles and feasts and children, all with George on her arm.

But George is far too young to even consider marriage. He's only nineteen after all, green and unseasoned. He knows little of the world outside the lecture hall and the playing fields, and even less of the world of business and power he hopes to occupy. All the same, he likes Isabel, and he worries that if he lets her go now, he'll never have a chance with her again. 

His thoughts chase around his brain for a while and give him a proper headache. He walks off in search of a stiff drink when he feels a gentle hand at his elbow. 

"Enjoying yourself, George?" It's Betsy and he's not entirely surprised to see her, since she's meant to be Isabel's chaperone. 

He nods politely. "Yes, I am rather. I've been waiting for Elgar's new work for so long, and I think it's smashing so far. What do you think?" 

She raises an eyebrow. "I think you need to be a bit more careful with Isabel."

"What?"

"I don't think our cousin of Warwick would take so kindly to how...close you are with his daughter."

George bristles. "He knows I've brought Isabel here. I wouldn't have done it without his permission."

"Yes, he let you bring her to a concert. But I don't think he knows what happens when the lights go down. Does he?" 

"I don't like your insinuation."

Betsy laughs, a short, amused chuckle that puts George on edge. "But you don't deny it, so it's safe to say I'm right." She unfolds a hand fan with a snap, the sound startling George. "I'd prefer if this were not the topic at hand this Christmas."

"It won't be." George squares his shoulders and draws himself up, towering over her. "And do you know why? Because I'm not my brother, and Isabel is not a little spider treading the boards and waiting for a rich man to fall into her trap." With that, he gives her a little mock bow and turns smartly on his heel to walk off down the hallway. 

Besty's cheeks redden and she waves the fan harder to calm herself. She's always known that George doesn't like her, but to have it confirmed in such a plain, sharp way is an unexpected shock. 

An arm snakes around her waist and a familiar voice whispers in her ear. "Why are you so flushed, darling?"

She swats the fan at the air near Ned's face. "Did you know that your brother is an insufferable little toad?" She relates the exchange to her husband, the words spilling out fast and angry. 

"Well, he's not wrong about you, of course."

She gapes at him and ponders whether to slap him when she catches the glint of mischief in Ned's laughing blue eyes. "Why you..."

He laughs and gives her a quick hug. Betsy feels her anger recede at that and she laughs with him. 

"The thing is," Ned says at length, "George is caught in that terrible place between being a boy and being a man. You can't tease him about it, not yet. 

"Let him grow up a little. Let him know who he is. I promise you it will all be better."

Betsy nods demurely and puts the fan away. But she's not satisfied. George's words have stabbed her right in the heart, and though the wound will heal in time, the scar will remain forever. 

\--TBC--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is intended mainly to move certain stories along in time, rather than provide a lot of plot detail. I've tried to include some real life events to set the scene, but I sometimes fudge dates, so these events might be occurring in the wrong order/year: 
> 
> 1\. Ernest Shackleton's Nimrod Expedition to Antarctica was 1907-1909. He had an exclusive contract with the Daily Mail, and would wire reports back to London from New Zealand. The expedition was not a total success, but it captured the minds of the reading public and was a windfall for the Daily Mail. 
> 
> 2\. Prime Minister Henry Campbell-Bannerman died a few days after resigning the office in 1908, the only PM to ever die at 10 Downing Street. Herbert Asquith then became prime minister, with David Lloyd George taking over as Chancellor. Asquith and Lloyd George, both reform-minded Liberals, would change British politics forever. 
> 
> 3\. The suffragette really referenced in this chapter is Women's Sunday, the largest political rally in Hyde Park. It was a peaceful demonstration where women made the case for the vote and for labor rights for women. Huge crowds gathered in the park as well outside the park to witness the rally.
> 
> 4\. Edward Elgar's First Symphony premiered in Manchester in December 1908 to rave reviews.


End file.
